


Given and Denied (Twilight Theater)

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ACD Canon References, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 19:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's having a hard time remembering how he got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Given and Denied (Twilight Theater)

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a present for spacemutineer, in response to a prompt she gave me. (See end notes for the prompt, as it's rather spoilerific.) The title comes from a song by Poets of the Fall. And if you've read some of my other Sherlock-related fic, you might recognize some of this (for more direct references, again, see the end notes).

It was bloody unfair. Of all the times to leave his motorcycle at the flat, it would have to be on a frigid night like this. The icy chill would have been hell at speed, even through his protective gear, but it still would have been a damned sight better than standing around freezing his bollocks off while waiting for a tube that never seemed to come.  
   
Lestrade sighed and scrubbed one hand through his silvered hair in frustration. What the hell was taking so long? Had he somehow missed an alert? He’d been running ragged on this latest case, true – he couldn’t seem to catch a break with the series of nonsensical and increasingly violent robberies, and on top of that Sherlock seemed determined to pester him on every little detail about the statues, regardless of the time of day or night – but he didn’t think he was so out of it as to miss a terror alert affecting the tube lines.  
   
He could see his breath puffing out in clouds. Christ, it was cold down here. Tube stations ought to be kept warmer than this.  
   
Maybe this stop was down for maintenance, though, and he’d just failed to see the signs? Because not only was there no warmth, the station was utterly deserted. There wasn’t another soul in sight. And the station itself had certainly seen better days. The florescent fixtures screamed of a bad modernization attempt sometime mid-century. Yet there were still older lamps on the walls. They hung unlit now, but were clearly meant for gaslight once upon a time. The tile was old and grimy, the grout between the octagonal pieces nearly coal black with the dirt of the ages. He’d expected to see the station name spelled out in similar materials somewhere in a station as old as this had to be, but he didn’t see it anywhere. Vandals, perhaps. They’d smashed up stations before, ruining the careful work of craftsmen, and modern budgets didn’t include funds for that intricate kind of tilework. Not without a special grant or a full reno.  
   
Maybe that was why the station was derelict. Maybe they meant to restore it, clean it up, turn it from a deserted, worn out, and forlorn shadow of its former self to a carefully recreated masterpiece. Better that than just ripping it down and replacing everything with concrete and glass and the like. That would be even colder and less friendly than what was here now.  
   
They could stand to get rid of the advertising posters in their Plexiglas cases while they were at it, if they really were going to restore this old stop. The plastic had to have been deliberately scratched and abraded, because he couldn’t read a word of the adverts behind the protective surfaces, despite the garish colours. He couldn’t even tell what they were meant to be selling. He squinted, wondering if perhaps he needed glasses. Surely the distortion couldn’t be all that bad, could it? But squinting didn’t help. He thought he could make out some rather disturbing cartoon cows on one, and another suggested it was some kind of take on a Victorian flyer for shag tobacco, of all the useless things. Lestrade wondered what the ad company had been thinking, what they had been trying to sell, using an old image like that. It couldn’t be actual loose shag tobacco, after all. There were lots of blokes left around who liked to roll their own cigarettes – he’d been one of them, back in his younger, stupider, smoking rebellious youth stage – but nobody today, not even the hardest of hard core smokers, would want something as coarse and heavy as all that. Surely not.  
   
Lestrade shook his head once again, mildly surprised, this time at himself. How had he recognized shag tobacco, anyway? He frowned, trying to remember. Someone he’d known once upon a time smoked it, maybe. He was almost sure of it, in fact, although he couldn’t quite put a name or face to who that had been, just a general feeling of deep affection and respect muddled with remembered irritation, of which the tobacco had only been a small part. The stuff had been awful, almost as bad as the ship’s tobacco his friend consumed by the pound… Who had that been? He couldn’t remember that, either. But it didn’t really matter. Victorian ads for tobacco just weren’t appropriate advertising material in this day and age. Some people had no sense of history, of appropriate time and place.  
   
A distant beeping sound, like a mobile going off, broke into his musings. He looked around but didn’t see anyone. The beeping stopped, and he shrugged.  
   
He tugged his overcoat closer around himself and wished his scarf was thicker. The cold wind coming from the tube tunnel cut right through the wool of his outer layers and the thin material of his workaday suit. He felt a brief, bizarre longing for his uniform days. The uniform had often been as uncomfortable as hell to wear, particularly in hot weather, but it did a decent job protecting against the cold.  
   
He shifted uncomfortably and stamped his feet a little. Nostalgia – particularly over something that he’d been relieved not to have to wear on a daily basis – wasn’t going to solve his problem. He was going to have to figure out what to do. He couldn’t just stay here waiting all night.  
   
What time was it, anyway? And how long had he been here?  
   
A shiver ran up his spine, and it wasn’t due to the cold, as he realised that he couldn’t remember just how long it had been. He also had absolutely no memory of coming to this place, or what he had been doing beforehand. It was all a fuzzy blank, just out of reach of his exhausted mind. God, he really was well past knackered, practically sleepwalking, if he couldn’t put basics together.  
   
Frowning, he dug into his overcoat pocket, searching for his mobile so he could check the time. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t in his trousers pockets, either. Neither were his wallet or his keys.  
   
What the hell?  
   
Had he somehow walked out of his office without remembering to take his wallet, keys, and phone? He had a habit of tossing them into his desk drawer and locking them up while in the office, partially because it was more comfortable not to have them cluttering up his pockets, and partially out of a futile attempt to keep Sherlock from stealing his warrant card yet again. But tired or not – and he was, well beyond his usual state of leaden fatigue typical of chronic sleep deprivation – he sure as hell hoped he hadn’t become that senile. He was too young to be that absentminded, no matter how busy he was.  
   
Not that Sherlock was as bad as he used to be, if he was honest about it. Ever since John came on the scene, Sherlock was… well, you couldn’t exactly call it calmer, because he wasn’t really. Nothing about Sherlock was calm. Nor was he any more sane when it came to his oddball behaviours, or any more cautious about taking or avoiding risks when chasing after criminals. He certainly wasn’t any more polite when he was irritated. But still, John had made a difference, a positive difference. Sherlock had seemed happier in some ways, had been that way from the very beginning of John’s acquaintance. The two of them had somehow been right from the very start, so much so that Lestrade had been surprised by his lack of real surprise when John appeared at Sherlock’s side on that cabbie case. It was almost as if some part of him had been expecting John to turn up, to be there next to Sherlock. And Sherlock was more content now that he had an audience, perhaps. A companion – no, not just that, not after the first case.  An ally. A friend, someone Lestrade felt he could count on, although he had no question where John’s loyalties really lay. John was Sherlock’s friend, first and foremost. And sometimes Lestrade wondered if he was even more than that. Particularly ever since –  
   
The beeping happened again and then stopped just as before, sounding no closer, and distracted, his mind blanked again. Ever since what? Something. Something had happened, that had changed the relationship between the two men, but his overtired brain refused to provide any details, just a sense of deep concern – fear – and endless, helpless waiting.  
   
A faint whiff of something – pungent tobacco? Tea? Carbolic? Damp wool? Some combination of all of these things? – anyway, something, some smell, wafted to his nostrils, all the more surprising given the lack of any other odors in this station. He hadn’t noticed it before now until the contrast leaped out and practically smacked him in the face. Someplace this old, this grungy, this underground, should have a funk to it. There should have been the scents of mould and damp, overlaid with the stale olfactory remnants of thousands of people, rail dust, engines, plastic, and steel. But other than that strangely familiar, indefinable combination of smells that was its own particular scent, there was nothing but the sharp bite of the cold in his nostrils.  
   
“Oh. This is more than a bit not good.”  
   
Lestrade jerked around, utterly shocked. He hadn’t heard anything, no footsteps, no rustling cloth, no creak of shoe leather or rubber against the tiles, but there was John, practically right next to him on the empty tube platform. Where had he come from? And how the hell had he managed to get so close without Lestrade noticing? Practically dead on his feet or not, there was no way that should have happened. He knew the man was more dangerous than he chose to appear. There was a lot more to Doctor John Watson than hideous jumpers and a sharp medical mind. He could move just as catlike and silent as Sherlock when inspired, was a former soldier in fact (something Lestrade tried very, very, VERY hard not to think about, particularly in conjunction with a certain unsolved shooting involving a cabbie and a military-calibre pistol). But Lestrade was a policeman with far more years on the job than John had ever spent in fatigues, and there was no damned way John should have been able to get the drop on him like that. Yet there he was, dressed in what Lestrade personally categorized his usual ‘on a case with Sherlock’ gear of trainers, denims, and probably one of those awful jumpers hidden under his rather amazingly sharp and stylish dark leather jacket.  
   
John’s usually pleasant features creased into an unhappy frown, almost a scowl.  
   
“Yeah, it’s pretty cold down here,” Lestrade said, acknowledging John’s presence while trying not to let on just how startled he’d been. “And the tube doesn’t seem to be running on time, either. I haven’t seen one yet.”  
   
“Trust me, that’s probably a good thing.” John squinted in the direction of the tunnel, apparently searching the darkness for any sign of an oncoming train.  
   
“You’d really prefer that we just stand around here and freeze?”  
   
“No.” If anything, John’s frown deepened. “There ought to be some stairs around here somewhere.”  
   
“You’ve been here before?”  
   
“I’m not sure I’m here now.”  
   
“Huh?” His fatigue must be making him stupid, because John’s words made no sense to him.  
   
John stopped and gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “Where do you think we are? Exactly where?”  
   
“Oh come on, John, get off it. We’re in a tube station, obviously, although it seems to be doubling as a meat locker.”  
   
For a moment, Lestrade thought he heard another noise. The beeping, yes, but also remote banging of something against metal, and muffled, urgent shouts in voices he thought he almost recognized. He looked around, but there was nothing visible that could cause such a collection of sounds.  
   
“Do you remember how we got here?”  
   
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. Bad enough that he’d heard those sounds, worse that they’d stopped, worse still that he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow important. On top of all that, something about John’s tone when he asked the question set alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. That was in addition to the fact that he still couldn’t mentally retrace the steps that brought him to this place. But Lestrade was no coward; he made himself admit at least that much aloud. “No, actually. I was just wondering about that. I must have been really zoned out. Were we working a case? Did Sherlock send you after me, or did you realise that I was dead on my feet and come after me yourself?”  
   
Now it was John’s turn to sidle back and forth, shifting his weight from one leg to the other – the bad one – and then quickly back again. “No, Sherlock didn’t send me.” A corner of his mouth turned up in a funny kind of smile, one Lestrade hadn’t seen before. “In fact, I expect he’s going to be pretty put out about this, to say the least.” His expression turned thoughtful. “But yes, I believe we were working a case. At least I think so. It’s not quite clear…”  
   
“Right, the business with the string of robberies.” Lestrade couldn’t believe he’d forgotten that for a moment; he’d just been thinking about it earlier. “It’s a bad business, that.”  
   
“Yes, Inspector, it is.” For a second, John’s voice and phrasing didn’t sound quite like his own. Lestrade scratched his head. His own words were pretty odd, too, now that he thought about it. A ‘bad business’? He sounded like some pretentious twit, or an historical character from some drama on the telly. Judging from the look on John’s face, he was experiencing similar thoughts. The smaller man visibly shook himself, and when he spoke again, he sounded much more like the John Lestrade knew, the John of Sherlock’s flat and the occasional friendly pint at a local pub. “And speaking of bad businesses, to use your phrase, this is a bad one all over. Let’s go find those stairs.” John started off, walking down the platform, limping slightly, not badly, but more so than he had since… since whatever it was Lestrade couldn’t remember. John must be just as tired as Lestrade, to limp like that.  
   
Lestrade took a few steps after him, but then a wave of absolute exhaustion swept over him. He staggered. Suddenly waiting didn’t seem like such a bad idea. There were a few old benches about, and plenty of empty wall space. Yeah, it was cold, but he could sit down or lean against a wall and wait until the train came. “Hey, John, I am pretty knackered, and you look like you could do with a bit of a sit, too. Why don’t we just wait?”  
   
John whirled around and shook his head. “No, I really don’t think we should. I think I remember…” He shivered visibly. “No. Definitely not a good idea.”  
   
“Well, maybe you don’t think so, but I think it’s better than staggering up a bunch of steps and trying to find a cab at this hour,” Lestrade grumbled, conveniently ignoring the fact that he had no idea what time it actually was. He could not stifle a yawn. “I think I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”  
   
“But I do.” John had somehow come closer during Lestrade’s brief, self-indulgent musings. He was practically standing right in front of him, and there was a desperate, pleading look in his eyes. Funny, they almost looked blue in the station light – no, brown – no, maybe hazel? What colour were John’s eyes, anyway? He couldn’t remember off the top of his head; part of his memory supplied “brown,” another part said “blue.” They couldn’t be changing that much. It had to be something about the illumination and John’s own eyes that made them look so changeable. That was usually Sherlock’s trick, those pale eyes turning every shade under the sun.  
   
Something really wasn’t right in this place.  
   
Lestrade realized his mind was wandering and forced himself to pay attention just as John said something else he didn't quite catch but which ended with:  
   
“Please.”  
   
“Oh, all right,” Lestrade said wearily, unable to resist John’s heartfelt request, and unwilling to ignore his own growing sense of disquiet. “We’ll do it your way.”  
   
“Thanks.” John started walking again, and this time Lestrade matched him step for step.  
   
“Don’t thank me yet,” he told John, watching as the other man’s limp seemed to worsen with each stride. “Your leg certainly won’t be thanking me if this station has much in the way of steps.”  
   
“I’ll manage.” John sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, and Lestrade instinctively glanced away, wanting to give him a little privacy in which to manage his pain. John wouldn’t appreciate sympathy or stares.  He never had.  
   
A flicker of movement caught his eye. There was an old vending machine near the exit, the metal sides dulled with age but still polished enough to provide a distorted view of the station. In it, he thought he saw his reflection, and John’s – but no, it looked like a moustachioed Victorian-dressed gentleman limping along with the assistance of a handsome and sturdy silver-topped walking stick, and in his wake, a smaller, sharp-faced man dressed in an equally old-fashioned suit and wearing an antique bobby’s cape to keep off the weather.  
   
The beeping sounded again, and there was a loud metal clank. Lestrade jumped, startled, and the image vanished as if it had never been there – which of course it couldn’t have been. His imagination must be working overtime, turning what was just dim movement reflected in the side of the machine, too blurry and indistinct to show any detail, into something like that.  
   
Yeah, something was really wrong. And as he climbed the first few stairs, Lestrade started to suspect that it wasn’t just fatigue messing with his mind. Maybe Sherlock had slipped him something by accident? He didn’t think the consulting detective would do anything like that deliberately – at least not these days. But he could be awfully careless with his chemical experiments around the flat, and sometimes they could have pretty strange side effects. That might explain why John was here. Not only was he a caring bloke, but it was like him to try and mitigate some of Sherlock’s mistakes.  
   
Something stirred at the back of his mind – maybe something he saw on the telly, or maybe a memory. He wasn’t sure. “Did we catch up with those thieves?”  
   
John levered himself up a stair, using both hands on the rail. “I think so, yes. At least you and I did. Unfortunately for us.”  
   
That resonated with the murky, disjointed images flickering through Lestrade’s brain. “Yeah, that’s one word for it. We’re supposed to be the ones doing the catching. We’re not the ones supposed to get caught.”  
   
“True. Hard to argue when there’s six of them, though, and only two of us – and they’ve got the weapons.”  
   
Lestrade remembered that now. He remembered something else, too; fear, and careful cooperation, seeing John half-conscious in the unkind grasp of one of the largest men, a knife pressed into the doctor’s neck, blood oozing from a contusion on his temple and a shallow slice on the skin just above his carotid artery. “They clocked you a pretty good one, yeah?”  
   
“Not much good about it,” John replied with gallows humour. “But yeah, they weren’t exactly gentle with either one of us. At least I don’t think they were. I don’t exactly remember.” He lurched up another step, beads of sweat starting to show around his hairline. Lestrade reached over to help him, but John flinched away from his hand and waved him off before they touched. “Thanks, but it’s fine.”  
   
Lestrade really doubted that it was anything close to fine, but he respected John enough to pretend to believe him. He concentrated instead on the hazy memories – or were they dreams? Surely they couldn’t all be reality – wafting nebulously through his increasingly tired mind. Oddly enough, the images became a little clearer with every step he climbed. “And then they shoved us inside… an old bank vault? Really? Who has one of those just lying around? It sounds like a bad film.”  
   
John gasped a laugh. “A bit, yeah. A bad American film. But I’ve seen stranger things in old basements, even before I met Sherlock. You wouldn’t believe some of the things you can find in the lower levels of Bart’s, or how many levels there actually are.”  
   
Lestrade grunted. “Oh, I’d believe it. Between the old mews and sewers and things around London, there’s as much city underground as above, and a damned sight fewer maps. Still, you don’t see a disused bank vault every day.”  
   
“No,” John agreed, his voice sounding strained, but the lines around his eyes crinkled with humour. “And I’d have rather given this one a miss, to be honest.”  
   
“True. While the story of how we had the chance of examining an antique Victorian vault from the inside might be worth a few drinks down at the pub, all in all, I think I would have passed on it if given the chance.”  Another image rocked him to the core. No – not image, because there was nothing visual about it, just blackness. There had been no light in that vault other than the dim glow of John’s mobile, useless for calling out for help without signal, and John had shut it down. No, that wasn’t right. He had set his mobile to beep loudly every five minutes, just in case anyone came close enough to hear it, for as long as the batteries lasted, and then he’d turned off the screen to conserve power. Once the screen was off, there was no way to see if John was still bleeding, no way to see anything. There was just impenetrable blackness, and two men sitting together in the cold darkness, leaning against each other as much as the wall, listening to their own shallow, rasping breathing as the air grew increasingly foul. He shuddered and almost stumbled on the next step.  
   
“You okay?”  
   
The question was so typically John, Lestrade couldn’t help but smile. “I ought to be the one asking you that.” The light in the stairwell was dim, but Lestrade was pretty sure that it wasn’t the poor lighting that drew deep, tense lines of strain around John’s mouth, or gave him that pallid, sweaty look. “You want to take a breather?”  
   
John shook his head. “I’d rather keep going,” he panted.  
   
Yes, typical John, right down to the core, Lestrade mused, but knew better than to say so aloud. He slowed his pace a little without mentioning anything about it, and cast around for something to distract the doctor from his difficulties. He didn’t have to search far. “You know, I’m so tired I can’t remember how we got out of that vault. How did we manage it?”  
   
John gave him a funny look as he pulled himself up yet another stair. “You know, I haven’t the faintest idea.”  
   
That should have alarmed Lestrade more than it did. It _did_ alarm some part of him, but the rest of him was too busy simultaneously worrying about John, and trying to identify the faint noises he could hear somewhere ahead at the top of the stairwell. At least he thought they were coming from the top. He couldn’t _see_ the top, not in the gloom, but surely there had to be an end to these stairs sometime soon. “Do you hear that?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“That. Voices, I think.” Lestrade hurried up a few steps, straining his ears. “There. There’s someone up ahead.” He listened again. Faintly, he heard a few choice, cutting words, said in a strident, all too familiar voice, and a reply, in exasperated tones he also had no trouble identifying. “That sounds like Sherlock and Donovan!” He bounded up a few more stairs, recognition giving him a sudden burst of energy. “They must be here looking for us.” He glanced back down at John, who had only climbed one more step to Lestrade’s half dozen. “Here, lean on me. They can’t be far.”  
   
Stubborn as always, John shook his head. “Ta, but no. You go on ahead.”  
   
“John…”  
   
John met his eyes, and Lestrade could see that he was utterly determined despite being exhausted. “You know, it’s not fair.”  
   
“Huh? What isn’t fair?” The non-sequitur caught Lestrade completely by surprise.  
   
“You never have told me your first name. You can “John” me, but I can’t use your first name as a reproach in return.”  
   
Lestrade grinned. “Sorry, mate. I’d tell you, but then there’s no way Sherlock wouldn’t get it out of you. And the fact that he’s never been able to learn what my original given name was – despite all his trying, him and his creepy brother – well, it keeps me warm at nights.”  
   
“It’s a mystery for the ages,” John murmured, and Lestrade wasn’t sure if he meant his given name, or how he’d managed to keep it a secret from everyone, including both Holmes brothers. The most they’d ever learned was that it had started with a G – and that only because he’d told Sherlock so, one night that he’d rather not remember.  
   
“Yes, it is, and I’m determined to keep it that way.”  Lestrade heard the voices again, and reminded, he looked back up the stairs, then at John. “Well, then, let’s try this. I’ll go on ahead and see who that is, while you take a bit of a breather.”  
   
John nodded. “Go on, Lestrade.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll be along as soon as I can.”  
   
Sooner than that, if Lestrade had anything to say about it, he mused as he hurried up the stairs, forcing his pace despite his lingering exhaustion. John had refused his help, but there was no way he would be able to resist Sherlock. Lestrade would find him, and then…  
   
Blackness.  
   
“Sir? Can you hear me? Come on, give me a sign.”  
   
Donovan’s voice, soft but urgent, and threatening to split his aching, pounding head right in two. Lestrade groaned but forced himself to answer anyway. “Wh’ happn’d to th’ lights?” His voice sounded slurred and thick to his own ears. God, he felt like he had the mother of all hangovers.  
   
“That’s it! Now open your eyes, if you can. Please.”  
   
Underneath her professionally trained, calm tones, Lestrade could hear fear, concern, and something close to panic, all rigidly repressed. He made what felt like an extraordinary effort and managed to open his eyes.  
   
Everything was blurry. His eyes felt like they were full of sand. He blinked, trying to bring things into focus. Dark, pierced by bright emergency lights. Damp. Cold. Old stone and rusting steel. The chatter of many voices, interspersed with the occasional beep from radios. And underneath it all, one voice, repeating a single name in a constant, urgent murmur.  
   
“John. John. John.”  
   
Lestrade gasped, air dragging into his aching lungs. With oxygen came memory: of being ambushed, of being shoved inside the ancient vault with John, of the door clanging shut and locking behind them, of John setting his mobile to beep every five minutes, so that they could conserve their air instead of shouting, so something would keep making noise if they passed out from lack of oxygen. “Oh my God.” He swallowed reflexively, and felt the dry tissues of his throat flare with pain.  
   
Donovan’s face leaned closer to his own. His focus sharpened, and he could see the profound relief in her expression. “Here, I’ve got some water. And there are paramedics en route. They should be here in minutes.”  
   
The water tasted and felt wonderful flowing over his parched mouth and throat. “How - ?” He coughed dryly.  
   
“You don’t remember?” Donovan’s dark eyes went even darker with worry.  
   
“I remember getting locked in.” Lestrade cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice didn’t sound so raw to his ears. “How did you get us out? That door was over a foot thick. Did you catch them, make them open the door?”  
   
Donovan shook her head. “Venucci is dead; we found him stabbed to death, and there’s no sign of Beppo, or of the woman and the two men, or the man with the plasters. It looks like they split up, if they were ever all really working together in the first place. They might be on the continent already, at least some of them.”  
   
“Then how…?”  
   
“Apparently the Freak has a hobby after all, one that doesn’t involve corpses or rates of decay or insulting everyone in a five metre radius.” The derogatory nickname lacked any of the vitriol Donovan had used to use. In fact, she sounded almost fond as she spoke again. “Safecracking. Something he took up as a boy as an intellectual puzzle, or so he claimed.”  
   
“Safe - ” Lestrade choked on the word. “You’re joking.”  
   
“I’m not. I put in a call for a demolition team, but they almost certainly would have been too late – if the blast didn’t kill you outright. And it didn’t matter. Sherlock had that door opened in under five minutes, practically before I finished calling it in.”  
   
Reminded, Lestrade forced himself to lift his throbbing head a few inches, so he could look around for the detective and his friend. He spotted them just a few feet away, Sherlock crouched over John’s limp, sprawled form, gently patting one bloodstained cheek, and repeatedly calling John’s name.  
   
Donovan followed the direction of his gaze, and visibly swallowed. “He’s breathing,” she reassured him. “We weren’t sure either of you were, when we got the vault open, but once we dragged you out into the light, we could see you were still breathing very shallowly.” She swallowed again. “And now you’re awake. I’m sure John won’t be far behind.”  
   
Something about the words struck a chord, a fleeting memory of John’s own voice – stairs? – that dissolved as he tried to grasp it. “He’ll be along,” he said, and felt it as a certainty, settling deep into his soul.  He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he did. John would answer Sherlock, and probably sooner rather than later. It was his nature. He would always answer when needed, if he could. He was a fighter. He was a soldier. And more than anything else, he was John, and John never let a friend down, much less Sherlock. It might take a little time, but he would come.  
   
And he did. By the time the paramedics finally arrived, John’s eyes were open, if glassy, and his left hand had curled tightly around Sherlock’s and wouldn’t let go.  
   
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _I think it's got to be something Lestrade related, I'm leaning toward something a little mystical or sci-fi. I keep imagining him trapped somewhere, having to figure out what's happening, then when he does, having to explain and convince Holmes of it as well. Or maybe he'd go to John first for help, for medical advice, thinking this has to be an illness, a fever, a brain tumor, something. Either way, they're the most competent people he knows to assist in such a bizarre circumstance. Can they help him, though? I suppose that's up to you! Also: You should return to the twilight tube someday. Maybe with Sherlock next time. Or Lestrade!_
> 
> And if you haven't recognized it already, the "twilight tube" appears in [Don't Sleep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/329067), which is part of the [Emergency Contact Number](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14876) series.
> 
> Originally posted December 3rd, 2011


End file.
